Contrary
by Teya
Summary: Stardate 55403: Driven by recurring nightmares, Chakotay goes home—and on a planet struggling to redefine itself, at long last comes face-to-face with his past. C/7, post "Endgame" timeline. Rated M for adult themes and language. Follows "The Ultimate Cheesecake Challenge." WIP.
1. Ghost Stories

DISCLAIMER: It's Paramount's galaxy. The story is mine.

SUMMARY: Driven by recurring nightmares, Chakotay goes home—and on a planet struggling to redefine itself, at long last comes face-to-face with his past. C/7, post "Endgame" timeline. Rated M for adult themes and language. Follows "The Ultimate Cheesecake Challenge" in the _Becoming Light_ series.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Chakotay's background and homeworld is a minefield of gaping plotholes, which I attempt to begin to fill here. I take from indigenous Americans' historical and contemporary realities and Star Trek canon, and attempt to project into the future on a planet sixty-five light years from Earth. Treban dialect is Terran Standard (what we know as Standard American English) with Spanish, Mayan and Náhuatl vocabulary. While I'm reasonably conversant in New York and Los Angeles "street Spanish" (i.e. I can inflect "pendejo" to mean myriad things…), I speak none of these three languages fluently. I make up stuff, too. Any idiocies are my own.

Deepest gratitude to scifiromance for the beta and encouragement.

Archive with permission.

#

_Tradition gives one the feeling that life is predictable. Yet, in a period of rapid change, tradition can be like a plank of wood, once part of a bridge extending over the water, but now connected to nothing, an illusion of solidity moving randomly in the rushing stream._

_Susan Griffin, _A Chorus of Stones

CONTRARY

#

Ghost Stories

Stardate 55403.03

Oakland, California, Earth

He thought it was all behind him and then the nightmares began again. Once, twice a month at first, then more often. Same dream every time, although with variations in detail, different embellishments. But the story was the same: the setting, the characters, the events. It's how it happened, after all—or how he imagined it happening. In truth, he wasn't there.

In the dream he was on a hill overlooking Ketzál, the village where he was raised. The sun was high in the summer sky. Farmers had broken for the midday meal, sitting in small groups at the edges of their fields. On the road into town, a herder kept his pichú in line with the help of his dogs which were yapping and nipping at the native ruminants' wooly hind legs. In the plaza, it was market day—stalls overflowed with produce, glassware, bolts of fabric, jewelry, strings of beads. Children gathered around the fire pit, jostling for position, each scrambling to be the one to get the first ear of corn from the coals, the first ear of the first of the harvest. A prize. If he were younger, he would have been with them. When he was younger, he was.

The dream colors were brighter somehow than he remembered them. The music and laughter from the village was louder to his ears than it should have been up there on the hill. The smells—cook fires and manure, roasting corn and fresh-cut hay—were stronger, more distinct.

Home. He'd fled it once. He was still running.

He looked into the azure sky. It was new moons and the twin white orbs were in tandem overhead; his father would say that the Sisters were dancing. Between them suddenly a flash of light, like a star flickering at first, then growing larger, coming closer. He stood and stared.

And then the star fell and landed in Ketzál. And the village became glass.

Chakotay woke in a cold sweat, heart racing, mouth open in a silent scream, and sat up, disoriented. He took a ragged deep breath and held it, looked around. Spare décor, almost Zen in its simplicity. A child's drawing, framed and hung on a wall. A Ventu blanket, neatly folded and draped over the arm of a chair. Souvenirs of the Delta Quadrant. Familiar surroundings—Seven's apartment, Seven's bed.

She slept next to him, on her back, her face relaxed, her breathing even and deep. Her fingers tapped lightly on the blanket over her stomach—playing the piano in her dreams, maybe, or working the console in a lab. He put his hands over his face and silently gave thanks that he didn't wake her. She was trying to adapt to sleep—the doctors said that it could replace some of her regeneration cycles—but she was having a rough time of it: she slept lightly, restlessly. And his night terrors weren't making it any easier.

He got out of bed, went to the kitchen, and replicated a mug of tea, then stood at the window in the dark living room, looking out on a typically murky San Francisco night. His hands were trembling, and he tried to focus on the mug, on keeping it steady, on the heat, the scent of the steam. Not the memories. The weight of the mug, not the dream. Now, here, this room. Easier said than done. Something his mother would say. Used to say.

Seven walked up behind him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He jumped. "I did not mean to startle you," she said, her voice low and sleep-husky.

He didn't turn around. "It's okay," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I didn't mean to wake you."

She moved to stand in front of him, peered at his face with concern and traced the tracks of tears down his cheeks with her fingers, then cupped his trembling hands in her own. "Nightmares, again," she said. A declaration, not a question—she didn't need to ask.

He nodded and closed his eyes, but this time he couldn't stop the images: the charcoal sky, the blackened stumps that once were orchards, his sister on her knees in the still-smoldering cinders that used to be their father's field, her soot-stained face and desolate, pleading eyes. _Do something_. He couldn't stop the smell of the acrid smoke that even now made the gorge rise in his throat. _Do something_. He couldn't stop the sounds: the haunting whistle of the scorching winds and the agonized wails echoing a grief so deep he could never before have imagined it. And he couldn't stop the rage and hate exploding from his heart—white, pure, lethal… and as fresh as if then were now. _I will avenge them_.

Seven put her arms around him then and he broke. She held on. He dropped the mug and it shattered, the hot tea scalding their bare feet. She held on. His knees buckled. She held on and guided him to the floor, and the last thing he would remember of that night was clinging to her as if she was the only thing keeping him tethered to anything at all, while his own voice finally joined the inhuman chorus in his memory.

#

The humid air was heavy with the scent of lemon blossoms—sweet, with a spicy top note which just kept it from being cloying. In the morning twilight, the blooms glowed purplish-white, as if they radiated light from within. Seven bent close to a flower and lightly transferred pollen from the anther to the stigma with a small, soft brush. It was a component of the plant's routine maintenance, as essential as its needs for water and light. There were few bees to naturally accomplish the task here in Oakland, and even fewer on a fourth-story rooftop. If the tree—a container specimen said to be at least fifty years old—would give her lemons, her assistance was required.

She stood upright and stretched. The dawn breeze rustled the leaves of a Risan palm and the horizon glowed faintly white, again too overcast for a sunrise. Although the garden had been Irene's idea and largely her project, Seven was pleased with the result. With plants confined to pots in rows and on shelves and trellises, nature was somewhat tamed, subdued, orderly—unlike the tangled, disquieting profusion in the forest surrounding Chakotay's quarters. This garden was a calm island above the city, where she returned night after night in the silent uneasy hours before dawn. She realized now, on this unsettling morning, that it fulfilled one of the same functions as her lab had on _Voyager_—refuge—and was, in one small way, proof that she was adapting, could adapt.

And that was not something of which she was always certain. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose, then exhaled slowly through her mouth, attempting to concentrate only on her breath. The exercise was a remedy for anxiety—or so she'd been told by various counselors, physicians, Vulcans and Chakotay—its purpose to assist her in ordering her thoughts when emotion threatened to overwhelm her. This was not an uncommon occurrence following the deactivation of the failsafe device in her cortical node. She'd been assured the effect was temporary—she would adapt. In the interim she had this exercise. It was more effective some days than others.

Today, it was an exercise in futility. She looked over her shoulder. He slept on the floor next to the glass doors separating the living room from the garden, where she had held him only hours before. He didn't dream—there were no rapid-eye movements—and for that she was grateful. His nightmares, which he had only cursorily described but she could imagine, had unleashed a torrent of memories. She held some of them, of that she was certain: her mind had retained them following the neural link when _Voyager_ severed her from the Collective. She had seen what he saw when he returned to his homeworld after the Cardassian attack. She'd heard his howls in their minds long before he released them last night. And she knew that he didn't talk about them, tried not to think of them; even during the link, she'd felt his attempts to forcibly suppress them, keep them buried, away from her knowing—or more likely, away from his own.

He had come to her now—whether through circumstance or intent, she wasn't certain, and she was equally uncertain as to what she should do. She felt inadequate to the task. She knew the destructive power of long-buried memory—her own tended to surface without warning or context. But, how could _she_ assist him with his unreconciled past, when she had as yet been unable to come to terms with her own?

She could listen; she had promised him that. But in order for her to listen, he needed to talk—and until now, he had offered her nothing other than rage, tears and evasion.

He stirred in his sleep and threw his forearm over his eyes. Seven looked at the horizon again. The burgeoning light would soon wake him. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, tried to feel the light of her breath in her abdomen… and failed. She picked up a small bowl of strawberries that she had just harvested, and went inside.

#

Chakotay woke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and groggily pushed himself upright, sitting with his back resting against the base of an armchair, his legs extended, his eyes closed. He drew a long, shaky breath as events from the night before swam to the surface. He hoped against hope that it was a dream, but so far the evidence was pointing in the other direction. If it had been a dream, he would have woken in bed, in the tangled sheets of last night's love, his body entwined with Seven's. Instead, he was on a rug on her living room floor, under a blanket that she must have put over him sometime after he'd fallen into a brief, dreamless sleep.

He heard her bare footsteps approaching and the clink of two ceramic mugs set down on the polished concrete floor. He opened his eyes and looked at her. Her face was calm, her gaze downcast, unreadable. She awkwardly seated herself on a corner of the blanket, cross-legged, her back perfectly straight, cradling her mug in her hands. He smiled gently as she met his eyes; there were shadows dark as bruises under hers. "You look tired," he said. "Did you sleep?"

She shrugged. Evasion was as close as she could get to lying.

"Sorry," he said. "You should send me home at night."

Her brow furrowed. "I thought you… wished to stay here," she said hesitantly.

"I do, querida," he said, reaching out and caressing her cheek. "I just meant you might get some sleep, if…"

Her face relaxed; she took his hand and held it. "There's no need to concern yourself," she reassured him. "I will be fine. I need less rest than other humans. I can sleep and regenerate on weeknights when you're in Chichén Itzá."

Her eyes were wide and earnest. Not for the first time, he was struck by how innocent she was, how she took so much at face value. Seven didn't read between the lines—he didn't think she even _saw_ the lines. He knew there were some who looked at the two of them—the age difference, the social experience gap—and thought he was in it for the sex. Hell, just about every guy on _Voyager_ had fantasized about _that _at one time or another. All you had to do was look at her. Which he did. Gods, she was beautiful. He could carry her into the bedroom, throw her onto the bed, and bang the hell out of her right now. Avoid the entire conversation.

He snorted. Not likely. She'd give him that scathing look that made the recipient feel as if he had the intelligence of an amoeba and the savoir faire to match. Guileless she was, but she was no child. She was a grown woman who'd been through her own circles of hell and she was as far as anyone could get from stupid. At this moment, she was the only adult in this relationship. The irony made the corners of his mouth creep upward. He tried to suppress it, but couldn't. He started to laugh.

She frowned, confused. "I did not intend to make a joke," she said softly.

"No," he sputtered. "Not that." He took her chin in his hand. "I love you, you know."

She sighed, and smiled her exasperated smile. He knew he was taxing her patience, but still, she was kind enough to return the reassurance. "I love you, too," she said, gently and firmly. "Talk to me, Chakotay."

He owed her that. In the event of a meltdown on your lover's living room floor, an explanation would be considerate—although, in all fairness to himself, it was the first time he'd ever been in this position. He wasn't sure where to start: in the here and now, or at the beginning when he was born ass-end first? "I'm not very good at this," he admitted.

The corners of her mouth quirked. "I've noticed," she said.

He took her hands in his and studied them, tracing the exoskeleton on her left with his thumb. At long last he looked up at her. He decided to cut to the chase. "How do you live with it?" he asked. "The guilt."

She pulled her hands away and stiffened. It was clearly _not_ what she'd expected him to say. "Is the question pertinent?" She frowned. "You have told me—the counselors tell me—that my guilt is inappropriate," she said. "That as a drone I was not in control of my actions, and therefore not responsible."

"All absolutely true," he agreed. "But do you _believe_ it?"

She smiled ruefully; she knew that he knew the answer to that—his weren't the only nightmares that had interrupted their sleep. "I can believe it," she said at last. "But believing it does not alleviate the guilt."

"So how do you live with it?"

"I'm not certain," she said, and shrugged. "I simply do. I have no choice—if I live, then I will live with guilt." She shook her head. "But the circumstances are not the same. I acted, even if I was not in control of my actions. You did nothing."

"That's exactly the point," he said bitterly. "I did nothing. I wasn't there."

"And what could you have done?" she asked, taking his hands again. "What difference would it have made if you were there? You would have died with them."

He said nothing. She was right, of course: he couldn't have stopped the Cardassians, his people had paid no attention at all to Federation warnings to relocate, and twenty years of Starfleet training and experience would've meant fuck all when stars began falling from the sky.

He felt her gaze demanding his eyes, and when he looked up, hers were dark with worry. "I am concerned," she said. "If you can't talk to me, then perhaps you should speak to someone…"

He scowled, pulled his hands from hers angrily, and raised them to interrupt her. "No counselors," he said. _Hell_, no. Although he'd been reinstated, he knew Command was keeping a close eye on former Maquis. If he was ever going to get a ship of his own and the opportunity to pursue his research in deep space, he had to be the model officer now. The last thing he needed on his record was a psych blot. "I can handle this myself."

Her nostrils flared with a sharp intake of air. "You're _not_ handling this."

For the last seven years, he'd served as a de facto counselor on _Voyager_, talking dozens of crewmembers away from the brink. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd tried to express his own needs, or if he could even explain anymore what those needs were. His life was good. He had work that sustained him, work he'd chosen without obligation—for maybe the first time in his life. He had the love of a brilliant, beautiful, complicated woman, with whom he fell more in love every day. He honestly thought he'd made peace with his past; he'd done the trance work, spoken with his father, felt forgiven and forgiveness. Why again? Why _now_?

Seven bit her lower lip. "Perhaps you should return to your homeworld," she said. "Your sister and uncles have asked you to visit…"

He studied the garden through the glass doors, the city and the bay beyond them; the bridge was shrouded in fog. He heard his father's voice: _You will be caught between worlds. _He was. Still. His eyes burned, he blinked rapidly. "Come with me," he said at last.

She said nothing. He understood her hesitance. Adapting to Earth was difficult enough—even amid the diverse and tolerant population, her cybernetic implants occasionally elicited unwanted attention. How would she fare on a planet where every new piece of technology was endlessly debated and ultimately rejected?

"I've met what's left of your family," he said, shrugging. "You might as well meet what's left of mine."

His pathetic attempt at a joke failed miserably; her eyes welled with hurt.

He sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "That didn't come out right." He stroked her hair, tucking a loose strand behind her ear, and then continued tracing the curve of her jaw with his finger. "My relationship with my homeworld is… complicated."

She took his hand and laced her fingers between his. Her lips quirked into a wry smile. "I have a passing familiarity with conflicted feelings regarding one's upbringing," she said.

Her bleak humor was more effective than his. He chuckled grimly. "So you do," he said and drained his mug. "I've spent my life in between two worlds, never exactly at home in either." He snorted softly. "They call me a contrary."

Seven pursed her lips in thought. "Because you challenge them?" she asked.

He nodded. "Because I do the opposite of what's expected," he said. "I guess that does challenge them."

"Would I be considered a contrary as well?" He looked up sharply, but there was no mockery in her eyes; it was an honest question. "Here, I mean," she clarified. "On _Voyager_. On Earth."

He slowly smiled as he remembered her standing up to the Captain, her moments of open defiance—and his reluctance to discipline her. Part of that was because for a long time, he'd simply deferred to Kathryn when it came to Seven, avoiding the irritating ambivalence the former drone once evoked in him. But part of it, he recognized now, was that she'd given voice to a long-silenced side of himself—and he'd wanted to cheer her on, not reprimand her. "Yes," he said, gathering her into his arms. "I think you would be."

She rested her head on his shoulder. "I think I like that," she said. "I enjoy confounding expectations." He felt her shrug and a throaty chuckle. "I might as well enjoy it—I appear incapable of avoiding it." She nodded decisively. "Contrary." What he'd taken as an epithet his whole life didn't sound half-bad when she put it that way.

He buried his face in her hair; it smelled like lavender and rosemary. He'd left his homeworld over thirty years ago, and he realized with a start that of all the people he'd known and loved since then, it was Seven who'd be the first person from this life he'd be introducing to that one. A grin spread across his face. He would be challenging his tribe. _They _would be challenging his tribe. "Maybe it's time I tried to bridge the divide," he murmured. "Can you help me with that?"

#


	2. La Historia

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I beg your indulgence. This single-scene, dialogue-heavy chapter is dense in history, both personal and political; thus the title. Seven's doing her research and Many Words is a teacher. Please bear with me—Chakotay and Seven will get to Trebus soon.

There is no indigenous falconry tradition among the Haudenosaunee, but when I was developing Many Words, an image of a man riding bareback, his hair flying, following his raptor across the flat, wide-open expanse of the farmland in my native western New York, kept coming back to me. He wouldn't talk until I gave him a bird. I tried giving him chickens, but he just laughed. So I gave him a peregrine. As it turns out, Seven had some thoughts about that, too. "Chi'nę" means "bird" in Tuscarora.

Thanks to scifiromance for the beta and the encouragement.

#

La Historia

Stardate 55412.47

Niagara Escarpment, New York, Earth

Seven followed the familiar packed earthen trail from the transport site in the hamlet, through a stand of sugar maples and a hedgerow of wild roses—Rosa acicularis—in fragrant bloom. Many Words was in the pasture, shirtless, in a pair of worn blue denim trousers, leaning over a wooden beam resting on a pair of sawhorses; his hair was gathered in one braid down his back. Chi'nę, his peregrine, was tethered to her perch, preening.

"Good afternoon," Seven said as she approached them. She looked closely at the structure he was repairing and the beam he was about to cut. "That is 2.83 centimeters short and will produce a noticeable flaw in the end result."

He looked at her, smirked, and then measured again. He nicked the beam with the saw blade at the new mark. "You're right," he said. "Thanks." He set the saw down, stood up, and put on a T-shirt, then smiled broadly. "What brings you out here?"

She held out a blanket and a bag in response. "Lunch," she said, returning his smile.

While he spread the blanket on the pasture, Seven admired the falcon. She had seen peregrines hunting in Oakland—the prodigious seagull and pigeon populations provided an ample food supply, and nesting on a multistory building was apparently as acceptable to the birds as on a cliff. Chi'nę was, however, the first to which she'd been in close proximity, and she was an impressive specimen: fifty-seven centimeters long with a wingspan of one hundred twenty. Her back, wings and tail were a dark blue-grey, like the shale in nearby geological formations; her throat was the barest tint of pink. Her black, binocular gaze was appraising. She studied Seven, and blinked, ruffled her feathers, then resumed preening.

Seven removed her uniform jacket and folded it, then knelt and laid out the picnic: roasted vegetable sandwiches, potato chips, lemonade, and strawberry tarts. Many Words sat cross-legged on the blanket and grinned. "Chakotay is a very lucky man," he said. "I hope he appreciates you."

She smiled. "He does," she confirmed. "Most of the time." She looked at his project. "What are you building?"

He swallowed a bite of his sandwich before responding. "This is really good," he said. "Thanks. Repairing Chi'nę's mews—it got hit by carpenter ants."

"You could construct avian housing that would be impervious to vermin with replicator technology," she pointed out. "And in a fraction of the time."

He nodded. "Yes, I could," he agreed. "But Chi'nę deserves real wood, even if it's not 'impervious to vermin.'" He smiled and winked. "You could have replicated this meal. But I bet you didn't."

She smirked her concession. "You would win that wager. We deserve 'real food.'" A light breeze ruffled her hair and the sun was warm on her bare arms, pleasant sensations, so rare in San Francisco even as summer approached. Honeybees buzzed in the clover. "You have a sizeable apian population here," she said appreciatively, thinking of the dearth in her garden in Oakland.

"We're working on it." He grinned. "Thanks for the introduction to Irene, by the way. She's been a godsend on that front." If he noticed any irony in the fact that Seven's only living family relation was an expert on hives, drones and queens, he was kind enough not to mention it. He took a long draught of his lemonade. "So, not that I don't appreciate the company," he said, then nodded toward the mews, "and the help, but I'm pretty sure you didn't come here to discuss falconry, carpentry or beekeeping."

She bit her lower lip and studied her sandwich. "I require your assistance," she admitted after a pause. She took a deep breath. "Chakotay and I are leaving for Trebus on Friday. It's the end of the academic year—we have six weeks leave."

Many Words whistled softly. "That's not exactly a vacation," he said.

"No," she conceded. "It is not." She sighed. If she were to be honest, the trip was beginning to resemble an away mission for which she was completely unprepared. Her anxiety was increasing. In her dreams she beamed into Ketzál unclothed, surrounded by people speaking languages she did not understand—an impossibility, given the universal translator wired into her cortical node and the fact that Trebans spoke Terran standard, but still disconcerting. She looked at Many Words directly. "What can you tell me about the planet? About Chakotay's family?"

He frowned. "Shouldn't you ask him that?"

"I have," she said, and shrugged. "He's not particularly communicative on the subject."

"No, he isn't," Many Words agreed. He stretched out full-length on the blanket, resting on his left elbow. "Kana's the talker—outgoing, expressive, like Kolopak was. Chakotay's more like Imix, their mother—quiet, someone who keeps things close to the chest."

Seven looked up. "Chakotay has never spoken to me about his mother," she said softly. Her brow furrowed; she'd not noticed this lapse before, but now that she had, found it curious. "He speaks of his father frequently, but never his mother."

"Family dynamics? Not flying into that minefield," Many Words said, chuckling. "I'll leave that for him and Kana to explain. She has a colorful account of gender roles in Ketzál—and makes liberal use of an impressive vocabulary of expletives in four languages to hammer her point home." He grinned, with a hint of pride that caught Seven's attention.

"How did you meet her?" she asked, sensing that he might be more forthcoming about Kana than her brother. "Was it through Chakotay?"

He shook his head. "Other way around." He smiled, an inward-directed smile, of the sort she'd come to associate with recalling pleasant memories. "It's an old story," he said, "one frowned upon in most polite circles: I was the teacher, she was my student." He laughed. "In her defense—if not my own—she wouldn't give me the time of day until long _after_ she was my student."

"This was when?" Seven asked.

"Oh, we were young," he said. "Kids, really. I was twenty-three, a doctoral candidate at NYU. They gave me a section of 'Contemporary Politics in Extraterrestrial Indigenous American Colonies' to help fulfil my teaching requirement. Say it ten times fast and you get an A." He laughed. "Didn't matter that I knew next-to-nothing about the subject. This was before the wars started—things were heating up on the border, and the university sure as shit didn't want a Federation war-monger beating the drums. I looked the part, even if I'd never set foot on a colony in my life." He shrugged and smirked. "I got the gig on the length of my braids."

Seven could hear the resignation underlying his wry humor. She was familiar with the emotion. In her position as the Federation's current "resident expert" on the Borg, she was called upon regularly to answer all manner of questions—many on subjects with which she'd had no direct experience, nor of which did she possess any particular knowledge. She invariably complied, performing the same inquiries the researchers were capable of performing on their own—albeit in a fraction of the time—and reporting on the results, in an effort to be thought of as helpful. It irritated her—her complicity more than Starfleet's demands.

Chi'nę flapped her impressive wings, just once, before settling back to preening on her perch. Seven cocked her head. Was she really much different than a trained raptor? She was a hunter—a role determined by her physiology, both natural and altered—who performed according to her handlers' expectations. She designed tactical arrays; she analyzed sensor readings; she offered her unique body daily for medical research. In return she received what was necessary for survival. There was one difference, however: Chi'nę could choose to return to the wild; Seven no longer had that option. Chakotay had finally changed that.

"Anyway, I was young and cocky enough to think I could fake it," Many Words continued. "I boned up on the history and issues, and put together what I thought was a reasonably stimulating course, for what it was—a freshman elective, the easy A. They're kind of fun classes to teach, usually—odd subjects, off the boring academic trail. Best you can hope for is to get some of them interested, while they're getting the A that keeps them in pre-med." He laughed. "They got interested that year, but_ I _sure as hell wasn't the catalyst."

He finished his lemonade and held his mug out for a refill. "First day of class, I walked out to the lectern, expecting the usual subjects," he said. "A few who were genuinely interested, maybe a Terran Indian or two, bent on proving that colonials aren't 'real Indians,' and the majority just curious about those 'wild Indians'—real or not—who lived on the edge of nowhere." He chuckled. "I looked out at the class, ready to take in their eager faces… and there she was, front-and-center: Kana Al-Imix, Warrior Princess, with the rest of the class behind her, like they were in battle formation. She was all of seventeen, a veritable colonial Jeanne d'Arc, ready to lead her people against the idiocies of pampered Terran academics."

He smiled broadly. "She was _magnificent_. Tall, with insanely long hair that she draped over the back of her seat like a headdress. She was wearing skin-tight jeans, a red-on-white huipil, and a black leather jacket." He shook his head. "She even had her damned _warpaint_ on: sculpted brows, darkly lined eyes, bright red lips—and that tattoo on her forehead." He sat up again, crossed his legs, and rested his elbows on his knees. "She was sitting in that lecture hall seat like it was a goddamned throne. I looked down at the PADD in her hand—it was my syllabus, highlighted, with red text added." He raised his mug in a toast. "Her terms."

Seven smiled sympathetically as she offered him a strawberry tart. She was grateful that, as yet, she had not had a Kana among her cadets, and that none had organized—intentionally or otherwise—a class into formation to greet her. "What did you do?" she asked.

He laughed. "What could I do?" he said. "I fell in love. On the spot. She could have ripped my heart from my chest and sacrificed it to whatever Mayan goddess she pleased, right up there on the podium." He winked. "She thought I was an asshole. She called me 'Pendejo.' It took a while before she meant it affectionately."

Seven chuckled. "Chakotay was not exactly enamored with me upon first meeting, either. He attempted to flush me out of an airlock into space." Many Words knew that she'd been Borg and he possessed an adequate imagination; elaboration on the events was unnecessary. "Perhaps falling in love with people they once clashed with is a familial trait." He smiled, but she noticed that it did not go all the way to his eyes. "You are still in love with her," she observed softly. He conceded her point with a nod. "What happened?"

He looked up. "What happened?" he repeated. "Life happened. War happened." He studied his strawberry tart for a long moment, then looked at her again. "Chakotay didn't go into Starfleet to be a warrior, you know…"

"No," Seven agreed. "He went into Starfleet to explore." She smiled. "He may yet get the opportunity. His research has high-level attention within the Federation Archeology Council."

"About time," Many Words muttered. "He's fucking earned it." He drew his lips in a grim line. "Chakotay graduated into the Cardassian Wars—the Federation needed warriors, and I guess he's a good one."

"He is," Seven confirmed. "He is courageous, pragmatic, and possesses quick reflexes. He's a creative thinker; he uses unconventional tactics, which gives him an advantage. He inspires loyalty in his subordinates. He's also a skilled pilot and a formidable opponent in hand-to-hand combat."

Many Words laughed. "I can attest to that," he said. "I sparred with him—once. I've got a few centimeters on him in reach, but it didn't matter. He played with me for two rounds, then got bored and decked me. Knocked me out." He shrugged and grinned. "I don't think he meant to hit me that hard. My head was in the way."

Seven smiled. "We spar regularly," she said. "We have time once a week at a gym, near my apartment. So far, we've inflicted no serious damage upon one another."

"Beware," Many Words said. "He's got a mean right hook." He took a swallow of his lemonade, and grew thoughtful again. "I'll save you the trouble of connecting the dots in his service record, which I assume you've hacked into..."

Seven raised her eyebrow.

"Research, right?" he asked, chuckling.

She blushed lightly. Was she that obvious? "Please continue," she said. "Save me the trouble of 'connecting the dots.'"

His face fell serious again and he took a deep breath. "They cycled him on and off the front lines for almost fifteen years. He'd serve in combat six months or a year, depending on the mission, then they'd ship him back to Earth for leave, and then send him on a short science or culture mission for a break—for his psychological health, you know," Many Words said, rolling his eyes, "then back to the front. Finally things quieted down a little, and they brought him back to Earth to teach the next generation of young warriors." He pursed his lips. "A lot of those young warriors were colonials—recruitment was up on the border. Who better to train them than one of their own?"

Seven nibbled her tart. After her brief, ignoble career in tsunkatse, both Chakotay and Tuvok had encouraged her—in an effort to dispel her lingering shame—to explore her abilities in the martial arts. Chakotay had designated her a "reluctant warrior," gently explaining that such skills are not dishonorable on their own, but in how they are utilized. Now she wondered if he had been attempting to convince himself as much as her.

"Meanwhile," Many Words continued, "The situation in the border colonies was becoming more and more fraught. Trade routes were disrupted by piracy and blockades, with the expected resulting shortages. There were direct Cardassian attacks on Terran colonies, Setlik III being the one that vaulted the colonists into the newsfeeds—up until then it was just Starfleet versus Cardassia, who owned what territory, with not even a passing thought to the people who actually lived there. Kana was one of a handful of colonial citizens on Earth speaking out—trying to get us to care. She argued in front of the Federation Council. She argued in front of the Terran parliament. She argued with any pundit that would feature her on the news service. Hell, she argued with the woman behind the counter in the deli on Canal Street." He smiled grimly. "It worked, to a point. There _was_ a lot of sympathy for the colonists. At the same time, no one wanted the war to extend into the Federation core."

"Chakotay said that the colonies were viewed as expendable," Seven said.

Many Words nodded. "Ah, but here's the political dance," he said, raising an eyebrow. "The Council made sure to note that the _colonists_ were of the utmost importance. If they would simply relocate to suitable planets outside of the disputed territory, then a diplomatic solution could be easily achieved and further expansion of the war into Federation space would be averted." He drained his mug. "They just had to give up their homes."

Attachment to one's place of residence was something that Seven understood to be a common trait across sentient species, although it was one that she did not fully embrace. "Why didn't they relocate?" she asked.

"I'll leave that for you to discover on your own," he said with a gentle smile. "I'll say this much, though: they had something there. Trebus is a beautiful world." His face grew somber. "Or, well… it was."

She watched a bee burrow into a clover blossom. She would not tell him that she held memories of Chakotay's homeworld, of his childhood, as fragmented in her mind as her memories of her own. The planet was indeed beautiful, but was that sufficient reason to gamble on their children's survival? "So you did set foot on a colony eventually," she said instead.

He nodded. "Kana became one of the colonies' official representatives. She traveled back and forth a lot—I went with her when my schedule allowed." He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. "Then the Federation announced the creation of the DMZ, and Kana made a final, impassioned appeal to the Federation Council. Chakotay and I were in the gallery. I remember he was in uniform; rumor had it he was about to be offered a position as XO on a battle cruiser. We could see the faces of the delegates; it was obvious that Kana's plea fell on deaf ears." He looked down at his hands, then at Seven, his face anguished. "Three weeks later, the Cardassians hit Trebus, four strikes, one directly on Ketzál."

A memory flashed in Seven's mind. She was pulling Kana to her feet, brushing the embers of Kolopak's fields from her slacks. But it was not Seven whose chest Kana pounded with her fists. It was not Seven's ears hearing her screams. Those were not Seven's arms holding her; Seven was not the individual dragging her away from the scene. The memory was Chakotay's. She looked down and bit her lip; her human eye burned. "Was that retribution?" she asked hoarsely. "For her speech?"

Many Words shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not," he said bitterly. "Possibly symbolic—Ketzál was the first settlement on Trebus. Or maybe just coincidence." He shook his head. "There wasn't any sense in what the Cardies did that day. Trebus has no strategic mineral deposits, nothing useful for Cardassia. It's an agrarian planet, and they created firestorms that destroyed prime land…"

"Pointless destruction is not unusual for Cardassians," Seven noted.

He snorted. "Yeah." He paused, organizing his thoughts. "Chakotay took emergency leave and came to New York to collect Kana before catching a series of transports to Trebus. I wanted to go with them, but they convinced me to stay on Earth and do what I could to help here, organizing relief efforts on this end." He gazed out across the pasture, his expression vague, focused inward. "I saw him once more—when he returned to Earth a few months later to resign his commission. Once he joined the Maquis, I couldn't go anywhere near the place."

"Why not?" Seven asked.

"The Maquis were labeled terrorists and traitors," he said. "Chakotay was a decorated veteran of the wars. They used his official Starfleet portrait on his wanted poster to emphasize his 'betrayal.'" He spat the word out and furrowed his brow. "I was a known friend of his—hell, a still of us in the gallery during Kana's speech had been broadcast across the news services with the caption, _Residents of disputed colonies react to creation of demilitarized zone_—not entirely accurate, but I guess it got the point across." He frowned. "My movements were tracked in the hope that I'd lead Starfleet to him. I made it as far as DS9 once, before spotting my shadow. I turned around and went home." He studied her face closely. "I know this doesn't match the idyllic spin Terrans like to put on the Federation…"

"I have no illusions about Federation—and particularly Starfleet—perfection," Seven reassured him. "Human history appears to be an endless cycle of repeating the same mistakes over and over. And then trying to pretend that they never happened."

He nodded. "Yeah," he agreed quietly, "we do a lot of that."

She looked out across the pasture. An agricultural hovercraft was moving across a field, cutting hay with a laser scythe; two men on horseback cut across the scene, creating a compelling visual paradox. Many Words' account of the history—both personal and political—had helped to put the memories she shared with Chakotay in order, gave her a foundation on which to place them. But there was still something fundamental missing. "Why did Chakotay's people leave Earth in the first place?" she asked.

"Ah, now we're getting into _my_ area of academic expertise," Many Words said, "where I'm not as much of a pendejo." He grinned. "It goes back to the late twenty-first century..."

"A period of rapid change," Seven said. She was familiar with the basic historical details: the destruction and resultant displacements in the wake of World War III, the technological leap of breaking the warp barrier, the sudden shift in perspective following first contact with the Vulcans. She divided what remained of the lemonade between their mugs.

He nodded agreement. "And in periods of rapid change, tradition looks like something stable," he explained. "Some people look back to what they consider a simpler life—living slowly, communally, according to the cycles of nature. Various utopian movements sprang up all over Earth. The European Neo-Transcendentalists were one such group. Chakotay's people were part of another." He looked out across the pasture. "To a certain extent, we were, too."

"Yet your people remained on Earth," she noted. "You appear to have maintained a distinct culture here."

"Fair observation," he said. "We've been on this land for over five hundred years. The Haudenosaunee Confederacy is over a thousand years old. Our government predated European colonization—and survived it." He shrugged. "The Six Nations had historical continuity and, thus, political credibility. We were recognized as sovereign nations by United Earth—and as such, received and still have representation in Terran government."

"And Chakotay's people did not?"

Many Words shook his head. "The situation was different in Chakotay's ancestral homeland," he explained. "Economic exploitation and political instability drove a migration north, centuries ago. Chakotay's people were Maya, originally from Central America and southern Mexico, who settled in Southern California urban centers in the late twentieth century. Following World War III and the Hermosa quake, they formed communities in the surrounding countryside, communal in nature. These weren't subsistence farmers—they were highly educated people from all walks of life, including scientists and engineers, who'd become increasingly concerned about the homogenization of Terran culture and the increasing reliance on technology in the wake of First Contact." He took a swallow of his lemonade. "La Raza was a loose confederation of similar indigenous communities in the American Southwest—most of them reconstructionists, like Chakotay's people—who sought political representation in United Earth. When they didn't achieve that—and most of the Neo-Utopians didn't—they felt that the best way to preserve what they were trying to build was to leave Earth and build it as far from Federation interference as they could."

"Reconstructionists?" Seven asked.

"People reclaiming an older tradition without a direct lineage," he explained. "Their traditions, their spirituality, sometimes even their languages are reconstructions _from_ history, not a continuation _of_ history." He leaned back. "The history they followed was often apocryphal, and as would be expected, they incorporated entirely new traditions—Ketzál's tribal tattoo, for example—which led to the oft-heard criticism that colonials aren't 'real Indians.'"

The corners of Seven's mouth quirked, just a little. "Humans are infinitely adaptable," she said. "It is one of our strengths." She smiled. "We do find infinite ways to complain about it as well."

"We are, it is, and we do," he agreed, chuckling. "They've been out there for two hundred years with limited contact with the Federation core for over a century of that, on trade routes serviced by the last of the Boomers. It's not just the frontier, the edge of nowhere, it was way _beyond_ that for a very long time. They tamed a planet with limited resources, sometimes not much more than their bare hands. They may not have continuity with an ancient tradition on Earth, but they do have continuity on Trebus. They are no less 'real' than we are."

Seven's quirked lips grew into a smirk. "Another of our weaknesses is an obsessive need to categorize individuals and groups of individuals into hierarchies."

He laughed. "Hold that thought, and you'll be fine on Trebus," he said. He rose to his feet and stretched, as she started to pack up the picnic's detritus. "I've got something at the house for you. I'll be right back." Chi'nę watched him lope the twelve meters to the cabin, then cocked her head, eyeing Seven.

Seven finished packing, put her jacket back on, and surveyed the environment one last time before leaving. The smell of fresh-mown grass was heavy in the air, a comforting, vaguely familiar scent, perhaps from childhood, although _whose_ childhood, she wasn't certain.

When Many Words returned, he handed her two flat, square boxes. "Viola's maple-walnut penuche," he said in response to her quizzical raised brow. Viola was a tiny, grizzled centenarian who'd taught Seven to make Three Sisters Soup—a traditional concoction of corn, beans and squash—which had rapidly become one of Chakotay's favorite meals. "Give one of the boxes to Cisco. He loves the stuff. And the best way to get in Pakal's good graces is through Cisco."

Seven laughed as they folded the blanket. "This sounds like advice I can use," she said.

He slung her bag over his shoulder, faced her, and cupped her chin in his hand, his face radiating friendly concern. "Take care of yourself, little sister," he said. "Conditions are rough there."

"Irene has briefed me on the environmental issues," she said. "We will be fine."

He smiled. "I was talking about you," he said. "You have unique needs…"

There was no judgment in his concern and that touched her. "There is a Starfleet medical facility in Ketzál," she reassured him with a smile. "My needs will be met." She studied his face. "Are there any messages you wish me to transmit?"

He did not respond right away, instead starting down the path to the transport site. The walk took only three minutes. She gave her destination coordinates to the technician, then stepped onto the pad. He handed her the bag, kissed her lightly on the forehead, and stepped away. He raised his hand in goodbye. "Tell them I miss them," he said at last.

She inhaled deeply and smiled. The air smelled like wild roses.

#

To be continued…

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Irene's introduction in "The Ultimate Cheesecake Challenge" was serendipitous—I needed an agronomist to put on Trebus, and Irene needed something to do, besides being Seven's aunt. I chose melittology—the study of bees—as her specialty because it seemed like something I'd enjoy researching for the character, and I really do hope that there will still be bees to study in the twenty-fourth century. Magnus's research did not occur to me at the time. Seven noticed the irony, though, and it gave me ideas for Hansen family history to use in a later story. Sometimes things work out nicely that way.

"La Raza" can refer to either Hispanic or Latin American indigenous identity. The group to which the original Treban colonists belonged used the latter meaning.


	3. La Familia

DISCLAIMER: It's Paramount's galaxy. The story is mine.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Chakotay's family introduce themselves to Seven—and they are a bit more… colorful than they were presented on _Voyager_. Chakotay's infamously twisted humor comes from somewhere—from being the quiet, studious, scientific kid in a family of eccentrics, and in a community where everyone has a gift and anything is possible, even naguales.

I've debated how much of a glossary to provide, and I've decided to go with my instincts and make it minimal. Most is, I think, easily understandable in context. But where something's important or interesting—and I remembered to write it down—I'll add a note at the end of the chapter. If you want something more—or if I've really butchered your native language and you want to vent—feel free to PM.

Deepest thanks to scifiromance for the beta and encouragement.

#

La Familia

Stardate 55450.83

El Pueblo de Ketzál, Trebus

Pakal followed Cisco out the door onto the porch, then stopped and looked out over the valley. The sun was the low gold of late autumn; this hadn't changed. No matter how anyone looked at it, the light was the same as it had always been and always would be. He closed his right eye and squinted—although it didn't matter which eye he closed as long as he squinted through only one of them—and then he saw the way other people saw: things as they were, now. There were hay bales scattered over the sparse fields, more than the year before or the year before that, but still not enough to provide for the pichú over the long winter. The apple trees were bare and as gnarled as his fingers against the sky, the meager harvest at its end. And the corn, the maíz, the foundation of their lives? There was enough to sustain them for a month, maybe two. They were reliant on the Federation, still, even as it made his old, withered skin crawl with shame.

But when he opened that eye again and squinted with the two, he saw the way _he_ saw, what his mother called the twinsight, not only things as they were but as they would be. There were four times as many bales of hay in the pastures, the cribs were full of corn, the apples' branches bent low to the ground under the weight of the fruit, and the herds were abundant, growing heavy with cria and their winter fleece. So it was when he was a child, so it would be again. He saw it.

He stopped squinting and brought his eyes back to the porch. These things would not be without work. And there was work to be done now, although not of a physical nature. He set mugs of coffee in front of their guests and sat next to his husband. He looked at the two on the other side of the table. His nephew's sad eyes were scanning the valley and his enamorada's followed his gaze. Pakal cleared his throat, and when he had their attention, he offered the bottle of káapej to Chakotay. "De La Doña," he said in explanation.

Chakotay smiled broadly and poured a generous, but not greedy, glug into his coffee, then handed the bottle to his enamorada, the woman with the ojos celestes who wanted to be called by a number, which Pakal would not do. "Káapej, the local liqueur, made by La Doña, the local curandera," Chakotay explained. "It packs a punch."

"Thank you for the warning," she said. She was formal, contained, her movements and speech precise. She smiled at Pakal and nodded thanks, then poured a modest, but not stingy, amount for herself.

These Starfleet, Pakal thought, they require explanations for everything. He smiled. Chakotay had always been like that—even as a child, "por qué" was his favorite word, "pruébelo" his second. He sat back in his chair as the bottle was passed around. It was good to see his nephew again. A kakalotl cawed from a tree nearby. Pakal looked out over the valley with twinsight and decided to tell them a story—a story about welcoming guests to Ketzál.

He was six years old when Starfleet first arrived on his homeworld. The early corn had just been harvested and Pakal had just been given his full name. He was his father's son now, no longer his mother's baby. For the first time, he would be among the children scrambling for the first ear from the fire, a tradition de su pueblo. He'd been looking forward to it for as long as he could remember.

Then they had a fiesta, to celebrate that the Federation had remembered they were out here. And the viejos gave Starfleet the first ear of corn.

It was una tlamana for certain, Papá explained, as Pakal tried not to cry about it. A sacrifice. The gods would be pleased with his acceptance of the situation. El pueblo would be pleased—the Federation would provide medicine and education that would improve their lives; he would have oportunidades that Papá never had. But while the gods y el pueblo might be pleased, Pakal most certainly was not. It _was _a sacrifice to have to wait another year when he had already been waiting all of his life. He was still young enough that a year seemed an eternity.

"The Federation," his brother Kolopak said bitterly, "they show more respect for aliens than they do for us." They were at the market in the plaza. Kolopak was nominally minding the stall while Papá made deliveries; the boys were leaning against his cart, side-by-side, arms folded across their chests. Kolopak was twelve years old, twice Pakal's age, and knew more than twice as much as Pakal did, even though everyone said that Pakal was a very smart boy. "They preach fraternidad to otherworlders, but because we are different humans than they are, they want to turn us into clones."

Pakal had seen only one alien—a Cardassian—and he was kind of ugly. Scary ugly, with gray scales like an áain. He was hoping to see a Vulcan, but none had appeared yet among the Starfleet crew. He wasn't totally sure what a clone was—all right, he was not at all sure—but Kolopak was, and he obviously didn't think it was a good thing. That was good enough for Pakal.

A group of Starfleet officers strolled by. Kolopak eyed them under lowered lids, his expression surly, and Pakal tried his best to imitate him. The officers strutted like peacocks in their red uniforms. "Cabrones," Kolopak muttered. "Yo chingé a tus madres." He said it just loud enough for Starfleet to hear.

One of them smirked. Pakal remembered Papá warning them about a thing Starfleet had that let them hear Terran when people were talking something else—it was how they were able to speak to aliens. He wasn't sure what Kolopak meant but, by the rude gestures he made, he thought it might have something to do with the pichú macho humping la hendra. He _was_ sure that if Mamá heard it, she would burst into tears and start chanting to Ixchel or María. He was _absolutely_ sure that Papá would swat Kolopak once across the ass with his big hand, and then haul him by one skinny arm down to the Starfleet officers to apologize.

And that, to Kolopak, would be the _worst_ humiliation. Pakal elbowed his brother in the ribs. Kolopak might have been twice Pakal's age, but Papá said he was getting más estúpido as he got older.

But Mamá had told him to never even _think _that something was the worst, because the gods and the ancestors would conspire to prove you wrong. Sometimes he wished he was católico like his friend Antonio, so he could make a cross on his forehead to ward off the results of stupid thoughts. But Mamá said that didn't work anyway.

But he still wished that he could and it did, because he had a very bad feeling about the crowd coming at them: a half-dozen of Papá's compadres with Papá in the center, and two Starfleet officers. Two of Papá's friends were trying to keep him from swinging at one of the officers.

"¿Qué chingados?" Kolopak muttered.

Júnior, Antonio's father, came running ahead, crossing himself. "Tu papá," he said to Kolopak. "He says he is a crow."

"¡Qué chingados!" Kolopak repeated, but he didn't once look at the sky.

Pakal did. Mamá said that he had la potencia, the gift, he could see… things. Agüeros. There was a big black bird in the sky, a kakalotl. He heard it shriek.

The Starfleet officers and Papá's compadres clustered around Kolopak, explaining the circumstances so fast and in such low voices that Pakal couldn't hear. Papá stood behind the cart, with his face up at el cielo. His eyes were closed and he swayed on his feet. He smiled. Whatever he was seeing behind his eyelids made him happy. Pakal closed his eyes and tried to see what Papá saw, but he couldn't.

Then the men approached Papá. Júnior took his arm. "K'in," he said softly. "Ven conmigo. Let's get you home."

"¡No!" Papá said, pulling his arm roughly away. "Vuelo." Pakal watched him sway. His movements looked like a kakalotl in flight.

Júnior looked at Starfleet. "He says he's flying," he explained.

Suddenly Papá looked at one of the officers, his face dark and angry. He bolted toward the officer, head down. He looked like a raptor diving for prey.

A third officer pushed his way into the crowd and gave Papá an injection in the neck. His knees gave out and the officer he'd tried to headbutt pushed him back so that he landed on his ass instead of his face in the dust. Papá's head lolled forward, and los compadres picked him up by the arms and started toward the house, followed by the three officers.

"I saw the bird," Pakal said to Kolopak. "I heard it."

Kolopak looked at him thoughtfully. "Vete," he said. "Tell them." Pakal followed Kolopak's eyes around the stall. Yatzil was looking at the early tomatoes; her baby sister Imix was in a sling on her chest. Yatzil saw Kolopak looking at her and smiled, shyly. "I'll mind the stall." He stood taller and smiled broadly, and as he sauntered over to Yatzil, Pakal could see the shadow of the man in the boy. He thought about this for a few moments, until Kolopak spun around and glared at him in frustration. "¡Ve!"

The compadres, except Júnior, were clustered in the yard, talking animatedly, all at once. "I saw the bird," Pakal said. They looked at him in silence for a few long minutes, then began talking again, all at once. He wondered if they ever understood each other. He pulled open the wooden screen door and went inside; it banged shut behind him but no one scolded. Papá was sitting at the table, head slumped forward, his eyes half-closed. Mamá sat next to him, leaning toward him, her brow knitted with worry, her lips drawn so tightly that Pakal couldn't see them. The Starfleet officer with the blue collar and the blue eyes sat on the other side of Papá, scanning him.

"Has this ever happened before?" the officer asked. His voice was deep and gentle, and the words drawled slowly out of his mouth. It reminded Pakal of the sound of the river over the rocks at the end of summer.

Mamá shook her head. "No, nunca jamás," she said. "Dioses mío."

Pakal scooted along the wall, with his back against it, trying to stay as far from Papá as he could. He wouldn't admit it to either of his parents and certainly _never_ to Kolopak, but at the moment Papá scared the crap out of him. He crept behind Júnior, and stopped at the door to the salón. If he had to—if Papá moved in any way—he could bolt across the room and out the front door to safety. He'd done it before, escaping Kolopak and his friends.

The officer with the blue eyes set his scanner on the table and peered at Papá's face. "He's coming around," he said softly. He smiled reassuringly at Mamá, then he turned his head and looked at the other Starfleet. "Go back to the ship." One of the officers started to break in, but the blue-eyed officer cut him off. "That's an order, _Lieutenants_. Dismissed."

The officers snapped to attention. "Yes, _sir_," they said in unison, then turned crisply on their heels and marched out of the house. Pakal looked at the blue-eyed officer, impressed. He thought Kolopak might like his style—even if he was Starfleet.

Papá blinked a few times and shook his head. "¿Qué pasó?" he muttered. He looked at the officer. "Who are you?"

"Just a doctor who happened to be in the neighborhood when you needed assistance," he said with a friendly smile as he started to scan Papá again. "Leonard H. McCoy, chief medical officer aboard the USS Excelsior."

Júnior's mouth dropped open. Mamá's eyes opened wide. The revelation snapped Papá completely awake. Everyone knew who Doctor McCoy was—even way out here on Trebus. He and his compadres had saved the Federation's ass more times than anyone could count. Mamá sprang to the stove and started fresh water for coffee. This was big, bigger even than La Doña coming to visit. Pakal wondered if Captain Spock was on the Excelsior too. He hoped so. He _really_ wanted to see a Vulcan, and Captain Spock was the most famous Vulcan of all.

"Estoy bien," Papá said, waving the scanner away. Mamá squinted at what was left of the last night's apple cake, trying to decide if there was enough to go around, or if she should just give Doctor McCoy the entire chunk.

"You're _not_ fine," Doctor McCoy said. "You were disoriented and hallucinating."

"Dioses mío," Mamá mumbled as she ground the coffee beans.

"Estoy bien," Papá repeated. He pushed back his chair and stood up. "There's work to do."

"You need a complete examination," the doctor insisted.

"K'in," Mamá said, "listen to el médico…"

"I saw the bird," Pakal said. "A kakalotl. I heard it."

All faces turned to him; all but the doctor looked more surprised that he was there, than by what he said.

"Now, son…" Doctor McCoy said gently.

Papá smiled broadly and put his hand out to Pakal. "Ven acá, m'hijo," he said. He looked at Mamá. "We'll see you for supper."

As they walked out the door, Pakal turned to Mamá and the doctor. "I did see the bird," he said.

#

The kakalotl cawed again. "I saw the bird," Pakal said to Chakotay and Seven. "But I never saw a Vulcan." He sat back in his chair and took a long swallow of coffee, his eyes fixed on Seven's face.

Chakotay looked at her out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge her reaction to his uncle's story. Her brow was quizzical, her eyes somehow both incredulous and skeptical, and the rest of her face remarkably placid, except for the tiniest quirk at the corners of her mouth, more in thought than in mirth—although there was probably a good bit of that suppressed, too. The infinite subtleties she could express without uttering a word never ceased to amaze him. He rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The infinite eccentricities his family could express also never ceased to amaze him. And even now, closer to the midway point of a human lifespan than the beginning of it, he could still learn something new—like that his abuelo had started having hallucinations long before Chakotay was born, and that his father had a schoolboy crush on his aunt when his mother was an infant.

And that Leonard McCoy had coffee and apple cake in Abuelita's kitchen.

He probably should have paid more attention to these stories when he was younger.

"¡Bravo, Tíos, bravo!" Kana set a basket of apples on the porch and clapped, slowly and loudly. "¡Bravo!" She climbed the three steps, looking at the uncles. "Mi hermano returns from the dead, and for the _first_ time since he joined Starfleet, brings a woman home to meet us, and you decide to inform her—before she's spent a full hour on the planet—that we're a family of naguales o lunáticos." She shook her head. "She's a _scientist_, Tíos. I doubt she believes in naguales…"

Chakotay leaped from his chair and interrupted her with a crushing embrace. "Gods, I've missed you," he murmured, into her ear. "And _that _is exactly why."

She pulled back and grinned at him, holding his face in her hands, as his eyes took in hers. She hadn't changed much, not really—new frown lines between the brows, strands of gray in her hair. But the smile was the same, the light in her eyes. "You're still too serious, Big Brother," she said. "Pero también te he extrañado."

Seven hung back, hesitant. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close; her back was tight with nerves as he introduced them. Seven offered her hand to Kana, but Kana hugged her instead. It took Seven a second to clasp her hands, briefly, to Kana's back. "Bienvenidos a nuestra familia," Kana said.

Seven smiled, a genuine, warm… relieved smile. "I am happy to be here," she replied.

Chakotay looked at his uncles, and then remembered Sveta's father, long ago, sitting sternly behind the desk in his library, his icy gray eyes—the same color as the landscape framed in the window behind him—inspecting Chakotay up and down. Even in his cadet's dress uniform, he knew he'd never pass muster. He rubbed the back of Seven's neck, sympathetically, and her shoulders relaxed, a little.

Pakal stared at her face. She awkwardly tried to rearrange her hair to cover her implants. Chakotay glared at Pakal.

"Perdóname," Pakal said to Seven. "Lo siento. Mi sobrino tells me with his eyes that I'm rude." He smiled contritely as Chakotay cringed. "Your eyes are… extraordinary."

Kana sat and buried her face in her palm.

"My eyes?" Seven repeated.

Pakal nodded, definitively, as if his meaning was incontrovertibly clear. Seven's brow furrowed in confusion. "Thank you," she said finally. "The left is cybernetic. Voyager's doctor did an excellent job matching the pigment of my human eye."

Cisco's left brow rose slightly—reflex or empathy? Pakal peered closely at Seven's cybernetic eye; Chakotay wondered what that view looked like from her perspective.

Kana stood, raised her hands, and rolled her eyes at Los Tíos. "Okay, let's give our guests a chance to settle in before supper." She turned to Chakotay. "And get a break from los locos," she muttered.

"I haven't said a word," Cisco pointed out in protest.

"You married him," Kana said.

Her cabin was about four hundred meters up a slight grade and through a grove of Treban pines. Los Tíos led the way, on either side of Seven, each pointing to things he thought important, one or the other occasionally taking her off the path into the brush. Chakotay lagged behind with Kana. He stopped as they entered the grove and looked up at the treetops, some forty meters above. That these old-growth woods survived was nothing short of a miracle. The firestorm had raced through the valley, from Old Ketzál to the sea, encroachment on the high pastures and forests blocked by geology and favorable winds. Even so, ash fall had smothered the land untouched by fire, and the rain's chemistry had been altered by the debris in the atmosphere. The pastures were scraggly and full of brush; the bottom land, once some of the most fertile on the planet, was gray and sterile.

But here, in the filtered sunlight in the grove, everything was as it had been, before. "Remember how Father used to bring us up here to meditate when he thought we weren't being appreciative enough?" Chakotay asked.

Kana chuckled. "He used to bring _you_ up here to meditate," she said. "Because you were always so… contrary." She winked to let him know she was teasing, but he scowled at her anyway. "Me, he brought up here to find mushrooms." She nodded toward Seven, Cisco and Pakal, who were crouched at the base of a tree about ten meters away, examining the ground in front of them.

"They're gathering mushrooms?" Chakotay asked, incredulously. Not that he'd mind—Seven made a delicious mushroom soup. It just seemed like an odd thing to do with her, right off the bat, before they'd even shown her where she'd be staying.

"Treban tour guides, sharing their favorite foraging spots," Kana said brightly. "It's not like we have an abundance of tourist attractions around here." She laughed. "They seem kind of intrigued by her."

"What the hell was that about her eyes?" Chakotay asked, his tone more irritated than he'd intended.

Kana looked at him sharply, then laughed. "¡Ay! That was awkward," she agreed. "In fairness, I think all Pakal was talking about was the color."

"The color?" he asked, frowning. "It's not like they've never seen blue eyes before."

Kana looked up at a kakalotl's caw, and then studied Chakotay's face. "It's the shade of blue, I think," she said at last, with a shrug, leaving him with the distinct impression that she'd left something unsaid, that there was something he was supposed to know, but didn't. Which pretty much summarized his life on this planet; it was good to be reminded of that early.

"You really don't think it had anything to do with the Borg hardware embedded in her face?" Chakotay asked.

Kana smiled grimly and shrugged. "Borg aren't high on the existential horror list here," she said. She gestured toward the sky with a sweep of her arm. "They're out there, somewhere. Mythical. We're probably too primitive to interest them." She chuckled. "Now if you'd brought home a Cardassian…"

He snorted loudly and exploded in laughter which he thought could be fairly described as maniacal. He laughed until his sides ached and his face hurt. He laughed until his tears made his cheeks burn. He laughed until he fell to his knees. Gasping for breath, he looked ahead on the trail. Seven and Los Tíos had stopped and were watching him, quizzically. Kana eyed him more warily, as if monitoring him for the first signs of dementia.

"Seska was Cardassian," Chakotay said finally. He'd introduced them on Hakton VII; Kana was there for political negotiations, he and Seska on a weapons run.

"¿Qué chingados?" Kana murmured.

They hadn't gotten on well; Seska had been at her neediest, clingiest—most manipulative, he knew now—and Kana had no patience for drama. He'd assumed at the time it was Seska's low self-esteem—the child of the labor camps meeting an ambassador and renowned historian. Kana was a denizen of the rarified twin towers of Federation academia and politics. Seska was self-educated, street smart—or so the story went. He'd wanted to protect her. She played to that, masterfully.

He nodded. "Seska was Cardassian," he repeated. "A genetically-altered agent planted on my ship. In my bed." He spat the last word out, the taste of that betrayal still bitter.

Kana's eyes were wide. "You were _that_ important that the Obsidian Order planted a spy on _your_ ship?" she asked. A sly grin spread across her face. "Tracked by the Federation _and _Cardassia? 'Mano, I'm impressed."

He snorted. "What would you call that?" he asked, with a tight smile. "Looking on the bright side?"

She chuckled. "We find our scraps of pride where we can," she said. "And our heroes."

He felt a cold draft of air blow through and shivered. "I'm no hero," he said, coldly.

Kana cocked her head and smiled, a small, sad sort of smile. "Uh, yeah, 'mano, you are," she said gently.

He shook his head. "There's nothing heroic in revenge," he insisted, his voice raspy, thinking of the first Cardassian he'd dispatched with his bare hands; it had been self-defense—the Cardie would have killed him as easily—but still he remembered the satisfaction, the _elation_, as he'd felt his opponent's skull shatter against the rocks, and how he repeated the pounding again and again. Now, his stomach clenched in disgust and he fought the urge to vomit.

She put her arms around him and hugged him close. He closed his eyes, leaned into her, and breathed deeply. "Maybe not," she conceded. "But you fought for us. That's all that matters here."

Was it enough? Did it make up for all the years he'd spent trying to get as far from here as he could? Could anything he'd done since the Federation betrayed them make up for his abandoning them all those years before? They held each other tightly, swaying slightly, while Los Tíos and Seven watched them from a distance. "That's not what I wanted," he whispered.

She pulled back from the embrace and smiled sadly, cupping his cheek in her strong, capable hand. "Yo tampoco, hermano," she said. "But no one asked us what we wanted."

#

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The North American landscape is rich in native plants and animals that were misnamed by European settlers, who named new-to-them things after something similar back home, without any sort of botanical or zoological connection. Thus, we have a lot of "roses" that really aren't roses at all. Frankly, it's easier to use vocabulary that already exists, rather than make stuff up—both for settlers and for writers. So on Trebus, an "áain" (Mayan for alligator) is a native reptile with powerful jaws. "Maravillas" (Spanish) are marigold-like wildflowers. And K'in says he's a "nagual" (Náhuatl), a person capable of turning into an animal, in his case a "kakalotl" (Náhuatl), a Treban corvid, similar to a raven or crow.

"Pichú" I made up—based on something, although what that was is long forgotten. The pichú is a native ruminant that the early colonists domesticated. It's similar to a Terran alpaca, but with a crimped fleece, like a sheep, and larger, like a llama—a good, all-purpose animal for a colony on the frontier, something that provides fiber, milk, meat, fertilizer, and can act as a beast of burden on terrain where land vehicles can't go. Like alpacas, a male is a "macho," a female is a "hendra," and a baby is a "cria." And like alpaca cria, pichú cria are the cutest things on the planet. That's probably not important, but I thought I'd mention it.

When Chakotay was a kid, "why" was his favorite word, "prove it" his second-favorite.

"Pueblo" refers to both the village and the people in it.

Doctor McCoy. I figure if he can appear at 137 in TNG, then it's not such a stretch to imagine a seventy-eight year-old McCoy serving under his old comrade Sulu on the Excelsior in 2305. Humans live a great long time in the _Star Trek_ universe; it makes sense that we'll be hale and hearty well into our dotage. And what better place for a country doctor to make a house call than on a country planet?

Yes, Kolopak was a foul-mouthed, punk-ass kid.

When Kana and Chakotay meet each other, she says, "I've missed you, too." In her final line of dialogue, she says, "Me neither, brother."


End file.
